


Carry That Weight

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-27
Updated: 2006-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted to LJ in 2006.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Carry That Weight

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2006.

Dean still wonders sometimes when exactly his baby brother came to practically tower over him, and, it seems, everyone else in the world. 

Because Sam's face, narrow and tilted up with slanting cheekbones and dark, almond eyes, is still boyish and open, even when his voice hits a low rumble that Dean's never heard from him before. 

He walks a little hunched over, living in his oversized sweatshirts and hoodies, hiding in layers like he's ashamed of his height, or more likely, just not used to it. 

He'd still been lanky and gawky that first night in Palo Alto, but he's filled out since they've been on the hunt again, broad shoulders stretching each shirt and loose jeans no longer dragging. 

Sometimes Dean wants to shake him, tell him to straighten up, shoulders back, legs apart, like Dad had taught them when they were kids, but he's a little afraid too of exactly how high that will bring Sam, stretched up and up so Dean has to crane his neck, all long limbs and broad back.

But Sam had always slouched, still does, regardless of their father's iron rod posture and sharp staccato admonitions, a mulish expression on his face and arms crossed in front of him. 

Sam's hands surprise him too, broad, square palms and knuckles rough like Dean's, his fingers long and elegant. 

For some reason, Dean usually thinks of them as gentle, awkward, making beer bottles look small and absently cradling steaming cups of coffee. He thinks of them casually splayed across Dean's steering wheel, flesh curled around plastic like they're swallowing something whole. 

He remembers seeing them large and pale in the soft darkness of that girl's hair, Sarah something from the art house, cuppping the curve of her skull, carefully, delicately, like she was a doll, though she'd been tall for a girl, not lacking in curves. 

They're strong, brown and callused, made to shape things, carry them. 

He's seen them handling a gun, a machete, a crossbow, though Sam doesn't like those. He's patched them up, wondered at how his own hands, square and rough and dependable, pretty damn big in their own right, were dwarfed. 

They leave prints on his hips, marks that bloom dark the next morning because Sam's excitable, passionate, loses control in the rhythm of skin and sweat and motion when he hardly ever does otherwise. 

Dean's surprised every time when he watches the long brown fingers circle his wrist like he's a girl, palm his stomach until Dean's muscles are fluttering and his breath's hitching, splayed until Dean's obscured under the spidering of veins, tendons, bones, until those fingers stretch from the slant of one hip to the other. 

They're quick, hard and unyielding, pressing inside of him, crooking just so because Sam knows what he's doing, knows what Dean wants and how he wants it. 

Sometimes all he thinks about are those long, knobby fingers inside him, twisting him, bending him til he screams, then he just rides out on the white screen of pleasure, Sam's other hand wrapped around his throat, his bicep like it's nothing. 

He's not small or delicate or any of that shit, but Sam covers him when they're sprawled across each other in a bed, can lift him up and slam him into the wall when they're in each other's faces, so that Dean's heart is tripping in his chest and his cock's hard between his legs. 

When they're together, those long arms wrap around him, legs tangling with his, face pressed into Dean's hair, Dean's neck, like a goddamned leech. 

Sometimes he wonders if Sam will ever let go, because for all his reserve in front of people who aren't them, when he breathes into Dean's mouth, moving inside him until he feels like he's going to shatter apart, Sam tightens his hands into a bruising grip like he's going to break if he doesn't hold on tight. 

Voice wrecked and impossibly low, he whispers desperate little things into the nape of Dean's neck, the hollow of his throat, the fall of his ridiculous hair damp with sweat and maybe something else. 

_Please, God, please. Dean, oh God._

It's never about God, or even Dean, and there are other things he doesn't like to think about because they feel too private, too Sam to even cross his mind in thought, like he isn't meant to hear them, all broken and scrambled in his ear.

He remembers Jessica, tall and beautiful, how she'd been within a few inches of Dean's height even in bare feet, how she'd looked so small next to Sam. He imagines that she'd been a gawky Amazon of a girl before she'd grown into that pretty face and her generous curves.

He wonders if she'd felt safe too, in Sam's arms, caught in those huge hands beneath him, absurdly little and cherished and used, when other guys must have run away from her height, intimidated or just stupid. 

If she'd sighed or moaned when Sam ran his hand down the length of her spine, pressing her into the bed, holding her down. If she'd stared at him in wonder when he cupped her face, fingers tangling in her hair, his palm swallowing her cheek. If she'd closed her eyes when he slipped those fingers inside her mouth, tasting salt and dirt and Sam. 

And he wonders if it's fucked up that he thinks like that too, like he needs Sam to mother him or cradle him or something, when Sam's _his_. 

He'd raised him, seen him through his worst, cooked for him, given him shit when he needed it, held him, couldn't remember a time when taking care of Sammy hadn't been on his list.

When Sam comes, he makes a broken little noise and his breath hitches in a way that Dean knows as well as the rhythm of his own heart. Sam takes him, encircles him, holds him desperately, his hands huge and warm on Dean's back, Dean's chest, his cock full and hard inside him. 

And then Dean feels safe, even though he should be doing the comforting, the holding. Because all he's got is Sam, wrapped around him, so goddamned much of him there for Dean to lean into - broad, broad shoulders and narrow hips, and those hands, hands that cradle and break and comfort, each little callus and scar branded into Dean's skin. 

It's not about the slick heat of their tangled limbs or the wet, hot place where their bodies meet, because Sam's face is still slender, still terribly, nakedly open, Dean's baby brother. 

They move and they move and they move, never needing anything, anybody else. Dean gets lost in the sight of those hands on his skin because it's so easy. 

He's not sure how to find his way back, so he just breathes.


End file.
